A black sapphire sea with a little bit of gold.
Brett Barley, slouching through the sapphire.
The Azorean coastline — wild, rugged and very exposed.
Men in green suits are far better hosts than men in gray suits. Alex Smith, coexisting.
The Old World meets the sub-tropics in the Azores, and delightfully so.
Oliver Kurtz fetches his laundry.
On an island, it’s always offshore somewhere. Here’s a peak with her hair blown back.
Chilly water, in two forms. Throw in a draining left-hander and taking a dip suddenly seems appealing.
Oliver Kurtz, a decorated stalefish.
These chaps were walking around the island for a week, on a traditional Catholic pilgrimage.
Alex Smith tears through a breezy right wedge on the northern shore.
The Azores are a very a safe place to visit. Still, Brett Barley couldn’t help but to occasionally look over his shoulder.
Empty pits like these await those who can deal with the wind’s fickle temper.
Alex Smith, king of the castle.
After a week of small, playful wedges, the evening of the very last day finally turnt up. Brett Barley, loud and not so clear.
Brett Barley’s Outer Banks hurricane-sense helped him make the most of the peaky last session.
“Wha — what are you laughing at?” Oliver Kurtz’s biggest local fan, fresh off the training wheels and already photo bombing.